


Old Flowers // l.s

by hazzabuns



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Louis, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fanfiction, Harry Styles - Freeform, Harry and Louis - Freeform, Larry Stylinson Is Real, Louis Tomlinson - Freeform, M/M, Smut, Top Harry, Triggers, larry stylinson - Freeform, old flowers, romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazzabuns/pseuds/hazzabuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I walked about naked and barefoot<br/>stepping onto shards of glass<br/> sometimes feeling it<br/> sometimes not.” <br/>- Charles Bukowski </p><p>Louis has been released from a psychiatric hospital and is now required to attend weekly therapy visits. Harry has been attending therapy for a little over a year and finds his happiness in old books and pressed flowers. Louis doesn't seem to know what happiness is anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warning

This story may/will have triggering themes such as depression and anxiety. My intentions are NOT to bring upon any harmful tendencies to anybody as I'm writing this story for expression of my own personal thoughts. Please be aware of yourself if you should ever read this story. Please be mindful.  
This story will include:  
-descriptive sexual situations/themes  
-profanity  
If these offend you, do not read this story.  
Larry Stylinson is a gay ship. I am in no way implying that their relationship is real hence the term "fanfiction". (Keyword: FICTION). If you don't like it, quietly move along to a different story.  
Thank you! x


	2. "Meanwhile in my head, I'm undergoing open-heart surgery." - Anne Sexton

L.  
Long story short, my parents got divorced a year ago because my "father" couldn't keep it in his pants. This happened during my last year in high school back when we were living in Doncaster. Isn't that a great way to start the summer? My mum went through her own trauma and then, she was completely sedated from any true emotions. Her lips were often wrapped around the rim of a wine bottle, tipping her head way back taking the biggest swig and then hanging her head low in a drunken state because she has reached rock bottom. She was drunk most nights, usually minding her own business but other nights, instead of sleeping on the couch or her bed she claims is "too cold and bitter for comfort," she slept in my bed. She hated being lonely. The nights when I was supposed to be studying for a biology test, I spent it scraping my mother off the patio out back because she passed out again. It's okay. I've never judged her for how she has dealt with how things stacked up. She needed me. She felt she had nothing to live for but she's alright now. Remarried and everything. My feelings didn't matter at the time and honestly, they still don't. There's the first error.  
In the midst of all of that fog and singular feelings of empowerment on my mother's part, I had my own avalanche of destructive and hollow emotions. You know when you're just standing in the shower and your mind starts going? It's a universal moment that happens almost at all times of contemplation and doubtfulness. I was thinking, "Well of course it's been a course it's been a couple of months since the divorce. Mum's okay, or at least that's what she tells me." The water started getting colder. "Nobody has asked if I'm okay. The situation shouldn't bother me, it's their problem. But I had to leave everybody in Donny to move here to Cheshire and now I don't know anybody here. I'm alone."   
That sunk in for me. We moved here to Cheshire a couple months back so that my mum can be with her soon to be husband, Drew. He's nice. He hasn't given us any problems. I just can't shake this lingering burden of loneliness. I was alone in all senses of the word. All I truthfully want is to be happy, whatever that is. I stood there in the shower and was sitting eventually. The water was freezing and my body was numb. My mind was numb. I couldn't feel a thing. I grabbed a razor, taking full advantage of that numbness, hands quaking as I pressed the metal to my wrist. Deep breath after deep breath, I closed my eyes and added pressure. A flash of white and then black was the last visual I saw.  
The doctor told me Drew found me after an hour since he hasn't heard from me in awhile. This happened right after dinner, when everything was calm. The new home still had scattered boxes and we were eating takeout off of old plastic plates my mum bought years ago from a zoo we visited when I was younger. The night was average. I stepped in the shower and never came out. As I was laying in my hospital bed, my hands and wrists wrapped up, all I could think in that moment was,"My new stepdad has seen me naked. Cheers."   
After being admitted to the psychiatric hospital for three months, newly diagnosed with major depression and anxiety with a prescription to a Prozac with a name I just cannot pronounce, I'm finally being released under the conditions that I attend group therapy sessions for five months minimum. It all depends on my progress.   
So, here we are now. It's autumn and we're on day one of my first day relinquished from that wretched hospital. It hasn't even been a full 24 hours and I've managed to make my mother cry again. I don't do it on purpose. I feel so confused and fed up sometimes and I don't know how to deal with it. It feels like my mind is blank and all that I can hear is an odd song lyric stuck on repeat or its honestly just clouds in my head. Its an indescribable and complete obfuscating state of mind to be in. And then there's a whole lot of irritability.  
I constantly feel like I don't want to be bothered and feel indifferent towards everything. Showing symptoms of asocial behavior, which is simply showing a lack of interest. My mother noticed me dragging my feet on the floor, looking exhausted. "If only she knew," I thought to myself as I sat down at the table for dinner. She asked me some God-awful question while I was picking at the baked chicken she made, not having much of an appetite and definitely minding my own business.  
"Louis, are you okay?" she asked me with so much concern and worry in her eyes. Its hard not to get frustrated with that question because firstly, that was all I would hear at the hospital. Every time a nurse walked in, my therapist, a patient even and now to hear it at home is almost nauseating. It sounds super harsh but that's the way it is. The problem with that question is that its an empty proposition of seeming to actually care someone and their feelings. If you actually tell them what's bothering you, its wrong because it doesn't match with what they think you should be feeling. I hate that question.   
"I'm fine," I mumble out. There's a frog in my throat that I can't swallow and I really hope my mom doesn't push it. But, I know damn well that's not in her nature.   
"Honey, are you sure," another horrible question she asks, "Because I'm trying my best to keep it together for you. I do so much for you and that same care is never reciprocated. Never."  
I stay quiet. I know where this is going because she has said it plenty of times before, even when I was in the hospital. She has described my moment in the shower as a "stunt" and "an act for attention" while my stay in the hospital is the "consequence for my ingenuous actions."  
"You're taking money out of my pocket. You know, I'm trying to build my life back together, our life. If you keep acting like this there's no hope for us!" Drew doesn't even try to calm her, he just holds her hand from across the table. She always does this. Creates a problem and turns it on herself to make it seem like she's the on suffering when in reality, I'm drowning and my lungs are filling with water.   
"And here's another thing to think about-,"  
"I don't want to think anymore! What did you think I was trying to fucking do four months ago?!"  
I had to cut her off. I'm wrong, so wrong for raising my voice at her. All of this complaining and "woe-is-me's". But, my emotions are valid because I felt them. I've been nothing but patient with her unpremeditated outbursts of grief and... I can't breathe. Soon enough I walked outside, clad in my grey baggy sweatpants and my favorite Joy Division t-shirt. It was my dad's. I was walking down an unfamiliar Cheshire sidewalk in an unfamiliar neighborhood with nothing but my socks and these far too familiar confusing emotions.  
It's cold and I can feel my eyes burning with my acrid tears, freezing my face numb. I'm feeling bitterly nostalgic, too reminiscent of the events four months ago. I stopped my walking to my unknown destination in the middle of seemingly nowhere, but really just this quiet neighborhood, surrounded by these houses. I cried into nothingness and hung my head lowly. I don't think I even made that far away from my house. I've never felt so lonely.  
~This is so bad omfg // lyssa✨


	3. "How to think of something, purely, lightly; without unconsciously abusing or altering the very thought?" - Susan Sontag

L.  
Once again, this was seen as an "overly dramatic act for attention." Maybe I was a bit too theatrical in storming out the house, but nonetheless, those feelings were mine. I still feel a void in my head and there's a hollowness that just can't pinpoint. When I finally made it back to the house after two hours of wandering, in only my socks and now blistered feet, after all of my over analyzing of the emotions floating in my head and deciding whether or not they're actually necessary, I was greeted with a familiar scene. My mother was laying on the couch, completely passed out. She had a half empty wine bottle in her hand with a loose grip. I stood there staring at her for a moment. She never drank heavily until my father left. Although, situations like this don't happen as often, its still painful to see her like this. I started to do the old routine by coaxing at her gently, rubbing her shoulder and nudging her to bring her somewhat back to consciousness. I heard footsteps coming from the nearby hallway, and Drew came in the living room joining me and my now awake but woozy mother. He gave me a sympathetic look which I shrugged off. This is nothing new.  
I was now trying but miserably failing at trying to get my mum to stand on her feet. Its exactly 10:54pm and I know Drew has work in the morning. Here's another situation where I am no becoming a burden on someone. My mum wouldn't be in this situation if had just listened to her ranting. What the fuck is wrong with me? After watching me struggle far too long, Drew patted my shoulder, diverting my attention away from my exhausting, self pitying thoughts.  
"Why don't you go on to bed, Lou." Drew offered to me in the most cautious of tones. I flinched at that. I don't want him or anybody to feel as though they need to walk on eggshells whenever they are around me. Am I really that bad? Right when I was about to protest, he continued saying," l know I can't even begin to imagine what's going on in your head, but -,"  
"I don't want to be rude at all, but I'm not looking for any sympathy. I just..." I trailed off. I don't want to hear someone else trying to partially empathize with my emotions. Drew is a great person, but he doesn't know what I've been through. He doesn't know the nights I've spent in that hospital shaking my head hoping for these ugly, uninvited, involuntary and definitely unwanted thoughts would fly out of my ears, freeing me from my mind. But, they linger and they have made themselves comfortable. Drew finally has given up on getting my mum to stand. He sighed and grabbed the blanket hanging over the sofa and draped it over her body after her refusals to leave the sofa. As he was finishing covering her, he finally said, "Right. Well, go on then. You have therapy tomorrow morning. Try to sleep well, yeah?"  
"Yeah, I'll try," I said flatly, giving a small clap to Drew's back and dragging myself to my bedroom to get clean pajama pants and underwear, and then the bathroom for a shower. Being in this house, with everything unpacked and in its place feels so foreign. I still haven't been able to get fully acclimated to my surroundings. Its oddly satisfying to take a shower without someone monitoring me or telling me my time in the shower is over. I can bask in the warmness of the water hitting my skin. I washed my body, dried off and put on my clothes. I looked in the mirror for a brief moment, unrealistically hoping to see a less tired looking and upbeat person. The person I used to be before the divorce. Now, I don't even know how to properly smile.  
I spent most of the night tossing and turning in my covers, not being able to get comfortable or to turn off my mind for not even one small moment. Once I rolled out of bed in the morning, forcing myself really to drag myself to the bathroom to brush my teeth and all the usual bathroom activities, I got myself dressed. Wearing a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt that says The Killers, another shirt from my endless collection of band tees, and a pair of dark red vans. When I walked into the kitchen, I was greeted with an empty household. My mum and Drew must have went off to work already. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed an apple off the counter. I noticed a small note near the fruit bowl from my mother. It read, "Make sure to get to therapy on time. Your car keys are on the hook near the door. Try to make the best of it, baby. - Mummy x"   
I took a the deepest breath I could take, held it for a couple of seconds and then exhaled slowly. While tossing around in bed last night, I tried, really fucking tried to tell myself that these group therapy sessions would be able to help me obtain the happiness and contentedness I want so badly. All that's in my mind right now and during the car ride to the Cheshire Health Facility, my mind was filled with anxiety. Once I finally pulled into the parking lot, I wanted to start my car again and drive back home. I know I can't because firstly, this s required. Secondly, I have to do this for me only for the reasoning that I can't decide if I can keep on living like this and feeling overtaxed. I have to take this chance. I finally build the courage to get out of my car and walk through the doors of the building, sign in at the front desk and make my way to my assigned room. I notice that I'm five minutes late. What if they all think I'm some inconsiderate jerk or I'm lazy? What if I won't be able to participate because I was late? That would fuck up my records at the hospital. All of these scenarios float through my mind as I find my way to the room. My hands are clammy and sweaty. I finally walk in the room and the session hasn't even started. There was no need to worry but now I feel ridiculous for working myself up like that.  
I stand in the doorway awkwardly for a moment, wondering if there are already assigned seats or a lack of. Some people have claimed there spots in the circle of chairs in the middle of the floor. What if nobody wants to sit next to me? What if I trip on my way to my seat? All of these thoughts seem trivial and elementary. I don't know how to turn them off. I stand there motionless until a voice breaks my trance.   
"I guess you could stand there in the doorway but you would be a fire hazard," a deep and somehow friendly voice said to me. I looked up and I was met with the greenest eyes I've ever seen. I quickly dipped my head back into my chest, not looking up at him because he was that tall. I didn't even notice him walk over to where I was standing so awkwardly. "I bet he thinks I'm a freak now," I said as I ridiculed myself.   
"Right. S-sorry about that," I managed to choke out, avoiding eye contact completely. I quickly scooted past him, not taking the time to get a look at his face and took a random seat in the circle, breathing heavily n my endless battle with my anxiety I had the second I stepped in this place. I felt warmth next to me and a fragrance of cinnamon. I looked over and it was the man with the green eyes. I quickly noted his appearance taking in his plentiful tattoos, long scraggly hair and extremely partially buttoned shirt. It had small yellow flowers on it. I hung my head again. He suddenly started rubbing my back softly, to which I tensed at and then relaxed into. I continued to breathe deeply until I was calm. I looked over at him, and he had the warmest grin on his face.  
"First time here, huh?" he said with a chuckle. His accent was posh just like everybody else here in Cheshire.  
"Uh, y-yeah,"  
"I can tell," he says with a soft face, removing his hand from my back and placing it on his knee. Right after he said that, the counselor walked into the room looking slightly frantic and rushed. The counselor was a younger woman with mahogany skin and seemingly, a million braids in her hair. She had a box in her hands that she was struggling with. The man next to me got up from his seat, taking the box from her hands with a wide smile, exposing his dimples.   
"Thank you, Harry," the woman said with relief in her voice. Now known as Harry, he returned back to his seat next to me.   
"I'm Harry, by the way," he whispered to me before the counselor began speaking.   
"Alright, well my name is Vicky and I am your counselor. I'm usually never this late but I was getting your journals from the break room," she began explaining while she passed out black and white composition books to the small group of patients. "These are journals that you will have to keep up with weekly. Each time you come to therapy, a new writing prompt will be given to you. Now, I will be reading these." A hand shot up in the air having a question, after she said that. "Don't worry these are completely confidential. Your first prompt is already written in your journal."  
I opened my journal and looked at the first page. My heart sunk at the question."Are you okay? If not, why not? There's no such thing as a wrong answer."  
As I was sitting there staring at the page, Harry whispered,"Kinda vague, huh? Like, who actually, really cares if we're okay? Most people don't even want to hear about it." When he said that, I felt overwhelmingly comfortable around him.   
"Yeah, yeah. I get what you mean," I said almost breathless. "I'm Louis by the way." Maybe it would be bearable here.

~ The second chapter is up now. I really hope you all enjoy this story.


	4. three

"I want to make long slow rare voyages, look at new landscape, new people, think other thoughts." - Martha Gellhorn

L.

"To officially start off this therapy session, we will start off introducing ourselves. Say your name, obviously, age and an interesting fact about yourself," Vicky started. I internally groaned. For one, I feel like I'm in middle school again on the first day of classes. Everything is odd and if it feels like you have two left hands. Nobody wants to talk or interact with each other. Secondly, I'm horrible at speaking in front of other people with their eyes all on me, passing judgment. It's incredibly nerve racking and it makes me extremely anxious. My uneven and fret laced breathing gradually made a comeback as I thought about this simple ice breaking game. Why can't I ever calm down just for once? I took a look around the room to see if anybody else was as anxious as me but everyone was either smiling or had a pleasant face. I looked over at Harry and his dimples were on full display. And here I am sulking because I'm scared to talk. Get the fuck over it, I tell myself. 

"I'll go first and then someone else will take the lead," Vicky continues, showing off her bright smile, "So, my name is Vicky as I already mentioned. I'm twenty six and I just received my masters in psychology last week." She says it triumphantly while smiling widely at the small applause acknowledging her accomplishment. I was looking at her and thinking how I want to smile again, genuinely smile again. Its been so long. I listened to the group's introductions of themselves, gearing myself up for when its my turn. Most members are my age, ranging from eighteen years old, including myself and another girl named Avery who collects pins as a hobby and twenty one being the oldest like this guy named Robert who just "sticks to routine." Everyone in here seems incredibly normal and strangely average. I wonder why they're even in therapy in the first place. Why were they're demons so hard to fight off to end up in a place like this to share vague facts about themselves to complete strangers. Why is Harry in here? What happened to him? What does he have to battle? I begin to wonder these types of questions about myself. Everybody in the group circle has introduced themselves except for me and Harry. Harry whispers to me, but talks loudly enough for everyone to hear, I guess in an attempt to be humorous. 

"Should I go first? Or did you want to take the reigns?" he loudly whispers near my ear. He makes everybody in the room giggle and snicker, including myself for a brief moment until I quickly covered my mouth with my hand. I hated the way I sounded when I laughed and who knows what I even look like when I do. I shake my head letting him know he can take his turn. I still need some time to gear myself up for, what should have been, simple introductory activity. I can't think of any "interesting facts" about myself. He gives a quick nod of his head and stands up, the only one doing so, tall and confident. He towers overhead of the group, not giving any vibes of superiority or arrogance, but exuding warmth. I feel it immediately as he stands there smiling wide with his dimples on full display. I miss being lively. 

"Okay, so I'm Harry and I'm nineteen years old. A fact about me, not necessarily interesting, but uh I read books regularly and press flowers in them once I've finished with it." He says this in a low, gravel-like and raspy voice. He sits back down next to me while the others give him a subdued applause for standing and giving random facts. As soon as Harry was done, everybody's eyes were on me and the only thing I could possibly think of is how I wanted to melt down into a liquid substance and get mopped up from the floor, to never be thought of again. Harry gave a small nudge to my shoulder bringing my attention back. Was I really taking this long? I straightened my posture slightly, to give an attempt, a horribly shitty and failed attempt at that, to make it seem I wasn't at all nervous. It was clearly evident. I opened my mouth to speak but the voice was small, filled with stutters and uncertainty. 

"My name is L-Louis and I'm n-nineteen," I can't do this. "A-and I graduated high school last year." O spat the last part out quickly, barely audible for anyone to hear. I stuck my head back down in my chest as, my usual position and listened to the sparse claps for my awkward first impression. This time when Harry leaned over to whisper to me, it was for me only as his voice was quiet and oddly soothing. All he said to me was, "Congratulations." I came out of my makeshift turtle hole made out of my neck, coming out of hiding to get a good look at him. His skin isn't smooth, made rugged a bumpy by slight facial hair and small acne bumps. His eyebrows straight and obviously groomed. His face soft and inviting. Warm is the only word I can use to describe him. He gives me a half smile and small nod of reassurance. He meant what he said.

***

Driving back home from my first therapy session was a trip. I knew that I was driving but all of my surroundings felt so nonexistent and blurry as if I was high off of some drug but suffering from the worst of their side effects. I drove blindly, somehow still being able to focus on my destination: home. More specifically, the protectiveness of my bed. While I was driving down the road, The Black Keys drowning in the background, filling any semblances in the atmosphere. I feel nothing but something at the same time. Its hard to decipher and pinpoint it exactly. That's just where I'm at right now.

I pull into the driveway of my house, definitely not a home and unlock the front door. Its only noon so I know the house will be empty. I walk in and I'm instantly hit with the nauseating smell of plug in air fresheners and brown bananas sitting atop the kitchen counter. I slip my shoes off while locking door and I just stand. I stand in front of the door and take in my surroundings. The sporadic placement of the last of the boxes from the move that I was not apart of. The new sofa that they picked out without me. I walk into the hallway and look at the wall filled with picture frames of photographs I don't remember taking. With photo albums I could not help pick out filled with pictures I did not have the pleasure to reminisce over with my mother. All very foreign sights. I peek into their bedroom. Somewhat tidy and follows suit with over-zealous smell of those air fresheners. At least that hasn't changed. My mum has always bought those plug ins and kept them in its own designated drawer in her bedroom, warning my dad and I not to touch them. Although, I think she knew that we wouldn't because we didn't really care about the house smelling like a "Tahitian Breeze." She only bought them because she wanted to neutralize the smell of my dad's cigarette smoke. He always smoked in the living room on the couch while he listed to his Rolling Stone vinyl while I sat on the floor near his feet, tapping along to the song. Those were my favorite moments with him. No talking was needed.

Now when I smell these familiar scents, floating through the air like dust particles, instant nostalgia washes over me. All of these acquainted scents don't make sense to me as I'm surrounded by all of these foreign pieces of furniture. I walk into my bedroom which isn't too far from my mum's and Drew's. I take of my pants and throw them on the ground, leaving me in my boxers and t-shirt. I walk back out into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and my journal from therapy. I make it back to my room and plop down on my bed. The journal is mocking me. I don't want to write in it but I have until next Monday to get it done, giving me four days. I open the front cover and stare down at Vicky's handwriting, neat and rounded in blue ink. 

"Are you okay? And if not, why?"

I sigh loudly, not knowing how to respond to this at all. I wonder what Avery or Robert will write in their journals, what type of struggles do they deal with. Where did they come from? Why are they there at therapy? What happened to them? What was their childhood like? I begin to think about Harry and wonder if he's reading or pressing flowers. What really confuses me is go Harry has to attend these meetings when he seems so content with himself showing through in his clothing, bright yellow floral button up and breathtaking jeans, at least for him. His scraggly and free flowing down to his shoulders, falling in whichever direction it decides to go. HIs confident stance that I once had. What happened to me and my happiness? Where did I go and how can I be found before its too late?

 

~Slightly longer update since it was a two week wait. Please give feedback on any of my chapters and don't forget to vote! Thank you so much for reading! // lyssa


	5. four

"So, you claim it matters to you. I need to ask: how. Not why. How. Answer that for me. Invent the guts and answer the question."-Ernest Hemingway 

(Listen to Babylon by SZA while reading this chapter.)

L.

When I lay in bed at nights, trying my hardest to close my eyes, becoming even more exhausted than I was before, I often think about my life a year ago. How carefree I used to be before my dad left. he was my best friend and I was his. Even when I was younger, I assumed my position next to his feet on the floor while he sat on the couch smoking his menthol cigarettes, both of us tapping along to the sounds of Mick Jagger's wailing voice or Morrissey's somber melodies of heartbreak. He did this after dinner while my mum was in the kitchen cleaning up our mess, silently humming and stamping her feet. This was family time. Very few words were needed, just each other's company. It all sounded the same to me when I was younger, all of the guitar riffs and pounding drums. All off the lyrics containing the same themes of heartbreak, heartache, loneliness and any other word that can describe their sorrows, often masked by upbeat tempos and exclusive vibratos. At times, my dad would rustle my hair or pat my shoulder, telling me that I would soon have to be the "man of the house." He's told me that ever since was twelve years old. If only I knew that was a foreshadow for the life I'm living now, I would have been better prepared. This leads me to think, how long has he been leaving the house to go back to the steel mills for overtime "to give more to the family," only to have secret rendezvous with a strange woman. How long has he been fooling us? 

I remember the night my dad was kicked out of the house. He had just come in from the steel mills but not smelling of sweat, hard work or smoke. Instead he smelled of lilac, a scent my mother doesn't wear. She noticed and that's when he was caught. He pleaded with her, calling her baby and sweetheart but all my mother could scream out was, "Fuck you and fuck that whore." I was old enough to understand what was going on completely, that I was no longer going to have a father in my life and everything will change. It did quickly. Sitting in that bleak and cold hospital room with nothing but a bed with thin sheets and all white surroundings reminding of those loud rock songs of loneliness. Often times, I would sit and stare at my scars on my wrists, healing slowly leaving a brick red dashes on my skin. Reopening them is not an option but it is thought about and that scares me. I wonder if my dad is listening to them right now. 

***

Each day passes by as I lay down flat on my back in my room. Not on my phone or laptop interacting with anybody, not that I have bountiful friends to chat with. I see the sun rising and setting outside my window slowly, each day presenting a new day for anyone else but for me another day breathing. Non- existing or living with unsubstantial value. Floating through time. Stagnant. My mum would peep her head in through my doorway from time to time asking these fuzzy and ambiguous questions such as, "Are you okay?" or "Do you need anything?" I just say that I'm fine and roll back over on my side, staring at the wall. I don't feel anything. I'm not sad, happy, angry or any emotion at all. Everything is a blur. 

Sunday gets here quicker than I realized. Sitting at the dinner table, picking at the roasted potatoes on my plate, a real plate this time instead of a forgotten plastic plate from the zoo. My mum and Drew are still talking about their days at work and how they wish they could have a day to sit. Meanwhile, I'm as blank as a canvas. My mind has a sound of its own, like the radio frequencies when searching for a clear station on AM radio, it will never happen. After dinner, I helped my mum clean up and said goodnight. It's only 9:00pm but told her, "I wanted to get a good sleep in for tomorrow." That was a lie because I don't even know what sleep is. Sleep is for the stable.

I walk into my room and get back into my bed, the covers already pulled over for me. It like the bed knew I was coming back for them with arms wide open, like a complicated relationship. I pick up my journal and a nearby pencil on my bedside table that's already cluttered. My room is moderately disordered a few pieces of clothing thrown here and there, empty water bottles scattered throughout and there is definitely a lack of plug in air fresheners. Its my room and I could honestly careless. opened up my journal and read the ghastly prompt given to me. 

"Just get it over with, Lou. Stop being so fucking dramatic." I sigh, pick up my pencil and start writing.

"Are you okay? If not, why?"

\- I'm not. Not even in the slightest. I don't feel self destructive or even destructive in a general sense. I'm tired and its not normal to feel this tired. To feel as though I'm just floating through air like dust or dirt on a windy day. It feels as though time has stopped but only for me. Everybody is living their lives, going to coffee shops and bookstores, interacting with others. I'm in bed hiding under the covers because being social scares me. As pathetic as that sounds, staying in a place with other people for too long makes me anxious and that's not normal. I shouldn't feel so short of breath every time I go out. I shouldn't be feeling this empty. I remember how full of life I used to be. I would go out with my friends, play football in our backyard and smile. Genuinely smile a wide grin. Now when I force it, I feel my skin cracking. Its hard to keep living like this. Like I said before, I don't want to hurt myself. I already tried it and I failed. A failure that I'm somewhat thankful for. If it did go through, I would at least be feeling empty with a purpose. I'm dead. I'm just empty right now without a purpose. I don't have one but I want one so badly. I want happiness, whatever that may feel like.

I will unapologetically blame my father for the state of mind I'm in now. I've never felt so much hatred towards one person as I do to him. If he had been truthful at least, maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad. Did he even care about my feelings or my mother's? Did he even think? Does he even care at all? And if he does, how? How was he able to lay down next somebody other than my mother and care? He has to have absolutely no sense of empathy or sympathy in his body. He's a monster and I don't care to know him. I blame him for everything.

So, no. I am not okay. I'm confused as fuck, tired and helplessly scared. 

I hadn't even noticed that I started crying. The tears rolling off of my cheeks onto the notebook paper, making it blatantly obvious that I had gotten emotional writing this. I try to tell myself that Vicky wouldn't think of me any differently or see me as weak but it was a "Yes" or "No" question, She's going to think that all I do is whine about these non existent and unnecessary emotions. A flat out joke. I want to rip the page out but I don't. I almost feel a little better, slightly accomplished for writing down these feelings. I shrug it off though. These feelings will pass. 

***

Once again, I'm back in the same room at the health facility, waiting for therapy to start. I made a mental not before I went to sleep last night, my whole three hour slumber, to get here early to avoid any anxiety of choosing a seat in the circle. I have my journal in my lap, clutching it tightly in my hands. I'm nervous to hand this in to Vicky. The rest of the patients including Harry begin to file into the room one by one greeting each other with soft "Good mornings", some of them even smiling at me. I make my best attempts at smiling back, trying to look convincing but my dark circles give myself away. I feel a closeness in the seat next to me. I don't even have to look over to know who it is. 

"G'morning," Harry says with a sigh as he sits down, friendly nonetheless. He kind of sounds like an old man. I chuckle silently to myself as I finally look at him. As I turned my head, he was already focusing on me with a half smile on his face. I look down with my cheeks feeling hot and the pit of my stomach even hotter. This is a new feeling. I sit there trying to control my giggles by covering my mouth again. He begins to join me in my fit and then he asks, "What's so funny?"

"You sounded like an old man," I snickered out. Once I said that he started groaning as an elderly man, whining about his hip hurting earning him a couple of side eyes from the others in the group. I would normally care about that but right now, I was too busy laughing. I think this s genuine. It feels like it. After a few more snickers, we finally settled down, Vicky walked in the room starting the session officially. She stood in the middle of the circle smiling, saying a couple of hushed hello's. 

"Now before we start, does anybody want to read what they wrote in their journal? Only if you feel comfortable enough to do so? If not, I will come around and collect them so we can get started," Vicky suggested with a hopeful tone. I forgot all about that. My hands started to get clammy and my breath comes out unevenly. Harry then volunteers to read his journal. Hopefully, I will be able to calm down. I don't want to feel this way right now. He stands up tall and confident as usual wearing his tight black jeans and loosely buttoned ivory shirt. He combs his hair out of his face while introducing himself and flips open his journal. 

"Uh, the prompt says 'Are you okay? If not, why?' And I wrote, 'Yes, I'm okay. In the sense that I'm feeling rather average. Stagnant, almost. On the bright side, I haven't gotten angry, I mean the type of angry that put me in here in the first place. So that's good. But I've been feeling like I need to get mad. Truly angry. Not to hurt anybody or cause injury to them or myself, but just to get it out. I've been feeling like I can't express how I'm really feeling sometimes because I don't want to make anybody suffer anymore. Its not fair,'" he takes a moment to gather his thoughts because his voice began to quake. He's being tremendously vulnerable right now. 'I just wish that some people would say that they care about me. Not give an explanation on why, but how they came to that point of concern over me. That's what's boiling in me at the moment. But for the most part, I'm okay.'"

Harry receives an applause around the group including one from myself. I found myself watching him speak with such boldness and subjection. He's fighting off his own internal struggles as I'm doing the same. What is it that makes him so angry and why? Who makes him upset? All these thoughts are making me curious but then again, its none of my business. He takes the seat next to me again making the old man noises. I giggle like a child quickly hiding my smile away. My hands don't feel as slick anymore and my breathing is normal. This sensation is weird. Vicky then asks if anybody else would like to share. When nobody volunteered, she began collecting our journals. As she was doing so, Harry spoke to me in a low voice, both of us actually making eye contact this time. Looking him in his eyes, giving undivided attention is uncomfortable for me. Its all very strange. 

"Don't do that anymore," he says blunt and flat. I looked at him perplexed and now I'm feeling antsy all over again. What did I do? I don't think I did anything to upset him. I hope I didn't. I never mean to make anybody upset on purpose.

"Do what? I-I-I'm sorry," I stutter out small and weak. He catches note of my rising anxiety and gives me a small smile. I'm confused and almost feeling insulted now.

"Hey, calm down," he coos," I was gonna say stop hiding your smile. Its okay to laugh, yeah? You have a nice smile." I'm floored and the red on my cheeks is probably so visible. The warmth he exudes is washing over me, destroying any tension I felt within myself. I look at him, not even trying to hide my speechlessness. He grins widely and sits back in his chair. I follow his movements. I put my head down, trying to hide my blush and this goofy grin plastered on my face. I can see him at the corner of my eye stealing glances at me with a sweet grin gracing his face. Vicky continues to talk but I'm way too busy basking in this odd sensation coming over me.

-Longer update bc I still feel bad for the two week wait. Updates might be coming a bit slower because of my work schedule but I will try hard. Keep voting and giving feedback! //lyssa


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